


Moonlight

by thevalesofanduin



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23068483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevalesofanduin/pseuds/thevalesofanduin
Summary: Jaskier had always seemed larger than life, different, almost magical. But now his body is heavy in Geralt’s arms and it’s so obvious that he is not invincible after all.Geralt’s heart feels just as heavy, he would cry if he could but even so he honors Jaskier’s last wish to see the moonlight, placing him gently onto the forest floor.And then, the fucker starts to glow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 63
Kudos: 1197





	Moonlight

It is on a night when the sky is clear, naught but stars and the full, silver moon painted against the midnight blue canvas of the sky that she leaves her house.

Her footsteps are a soft patting against the forest floor, not betraying the desperation that shines clear in her eyes and the hope she holds deep within her heart.

When the village is behind her enough that her voice won't carry to reach unwanted ears, the trees part around a clearing in the forest.

There, she falls to her knees on the soft grass, the full moon shining down upon her. She casts her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, to the moon and with a voice like brittle glass calls: "Moon, oh silver moon! Legend says you grant wishes and I beg of you, to grant me mine."

Upon her words, a bright light descents from the heavens. It leaves the night sky dark, with merely the stars twinkling there and the clearing is filled with the most beautiful silver light. A light that comes from a woman that doesn't seem to possess any color, as if she is made of the glowing light itself. From her seemingly silver eyes to her ringlet hair and her flowing dress, all about her is ethereal.

The woman stares for a moment, as if she doesn't believe this is real.

The moon is standing in front of her.

The _moon_.

"You listened."

The moon leans her head to the side and regards the woman with curious eyes. "And what is your wish, then, that you think it important enough to beg it of the moon herself?"

"Love," the woman answers with sorrow in her voice and loneliness in her eyes. "I beg for love, a husband, for what is life without it? And as you now stand in front of me, that must mean this is destiny."

The moon shakes her head. "Destiny it is not, for no wish comes for free. What would you offer me in return for this love you beg for?"

"Anything you desire!" The woman cries, her hand to her chest. "Truly, I shall give you anything you desire in return for love."

In reply, the moon smiles. "Anything it is."

\----

Jaskier is different.

And not just in the sense that he never seems to shut up and has the self-perseverance of a flower in winter—surviving on what can only be sheer stubbornness.

Geralt can’t quite put his finger on it, never could.

He’s known since the moment Jaskier approached him surrounded by nothing but curiosity and excitement rather than the usual fear he can smell on people, the stench sometimes worse than that of death. But Jaskier has never been afraid of him, not since that first encounter and never after. If anything, it makes Geralt question the man’s sanity.

But something about Jaskier is off. Is just too... _much_.

Too much in anything he does, from the way he talks to how much he cares—good _and_ bad—and complains and flirts and doesn’t seem to stop even when in possible mortal danger.

Like a foundling child that hasn’t been taught exactly the right way to be a human.

With that thought in his mind, Geralt hums to himself and leans back against the tree, watching Jaskier sitting next to the campfire they made to warm them for the night. He’s playing a soft, gentle song on his lute that’s soothing and calm, the shadow of the fire dancing on his face while he almost seems to radiate in the moonlight that shines on him in a silver, almost ethereal glow.

He’s beautiful like that, Geralt thinks.

\----

There’s a Kikimora, because there is _always_ a Kikimora.

They’d arrived in town and it had taken less than hour an hour before Geralt had been offered a contract.

They being Geralt, Roach and Jaskier, of course. For after years of on-and-off traveling together for the past few months Jaskier has been a fixed presence at Geralt’s side. It’s not something Geralt is accustomed to, a travel companion. Or at least not one that isn’t a horse.

But Jaskier has wormed his way into Geralt’s life with an ease that should scare him. But he finds himself more and more grateful that the bard had wandered into his life. Having Jaskier around eases his mind, somehow. It lifts some of his loneliness that over decades seems to have overtaken his entire being. Yet he’s told himself often to keep these thoughts and feelings to himself.

Jaskier is mortal, after all.

Almost as if on cue, Jaskier clasps Geralt’s shoulder and says with a grin: “So will we be hunting some Kikimora tomorrow then?”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “We?”

“Well, of course,” Jaskier waves a dramatic hand between them. “We, Witcher, are a team. A two-for-one. A pair. You, the strong slayer of beasts and me, the humble bard.”

Geralt huffs, the smallest of smirks creeping onto his lips. “There is nothing humble about you,” he points out.

“Geralt, you wound me!” Jaskier feigns offence with great fanfare, as always. But his eyes shine bright with mirth and amusement is clear in the curves of his lips. “Alas,” he continues and slumps down on the bench next to Geralt. “I just have to comfort myself with the knowledge you at least agree we are a pair.”

Something certainly does _not_ flutter in Geralt’s chest at that. He grabs his tankard, lets out a non-committal “hmm” and takes a big swig of his ale.

Jaskier, meanwhile, grins. Content at not receiving a reply. “So that’s agreed then. Tomorrow. You, me and a Kikimora.”

Geralt gives the bard a sideward glance, trying to ignore the worry in his gut. “Just stay out of the way.”

“Always!” Jaskier promises.

\----

Jaskier does, in fact, not stay out of the way.

Or maybe he tries, he always says he does. But if that’s true, it’s the worst success-rate Geralt has ever seen.

All Geralt knows is that one moment it’s him against the Kikimora in the cave the creature apparently calls home and the next the monster turns its glassy eyes to the entrance of the cave.

To Jaskier, who is actually quite out of the way and half hidden behind a big rock. It would have been fine, him watching from over there, if it hadn’t been for the fucking torch in his hands.

It takes the Kikimora a split-second to decide Jaskier will make a far better—and easier—victim than Geralt and like an arrow it shoots towards the bard.

Jaskier yelps and Geralt can smell his panic and fear in the air. Can almost taste it on his tongue with how prominent it is. And within him, an answering panic seems to rise. It pulls at his chest in an uncomfortable and unknown way.

It is that feeling that makes him halt, if only for a second. But it is enough to slow him down, to not be quick enough to prevent the Kikimora from getting to Jaskier and attacking him.

Jaskier swings the torch at the monster, tumbling back. But it’s not enough to save himself from bony claws grabbing him. The Kikimora’s claws dig into his arms, pulling him in and the monster doesn’t hesitate to set its jaws upon Jaskier.

A pained gasp leaves Jaskier, a soft and pleading “Geralt” trembling from his lips and something in Geralt snaps.

He’s never killed a Kikimora quite as fast and as ferocious as he does in that moment. He doesn’t remember it afterwards. Or at least, nothing except how after he decapitates the monster he sees Jaskier lying on the cold, hard ground.

He’s at his side in two steps and as he falls to his knees next to Jaskier he’s overcome by a feeling he thought he wasn’t capable of feeling anymore.

_Fear_

It flows through his fingertips that reach out to the wounds on Jaskier’s neck—angry, deep gashes hat will kill the bard if they can’t find a healer as soon as possible, and might kill him of infection after, even if they do.

The fear laces through his words and vibrates on his tone as he says “you idiot, told you to wait outside, didn’t I?”

The fear is a cloud in his mind as he takes in Jaskier, his pale skin, the wounds and his shaking hands and realizes that there is no healer close enough to help.

_Fuck_

He takes in a trembling breath and sits forlorn at Jaskier’s side for a few moments, in disbelief of the situation.

“Jaskier,” he mumbles and his blood-stained fingers find the other’s face.

Some of the emotions constricting his chest must show on his face, for Jaskier looks at him with soft eyes, promising: “it’s f-fine.”

The words are enough to pull Geralt out of his stupor. For no, it isn’t fine. Nothing about this is fine and Jaskier might have—strangely easily—accepted it’s all okay if he dies now but Geralt won’t let that happen.

He’ll fight destiny if he has to.

He is about to remove his chest armor to tear off his undershirt to stem the flow of blood when Jaskier reaches out a trembling hand.

“Don’t,” he urges and his voice is firm and certain, despite the situation. “It’s useless.”

“Won’t know unless we try,” Geralt bites back because Jaskier can’t give up like that, can he?

A shock goes through Jaskier’s body, a dry gasp on his lips and he pleads: “Outside. I need to be in the moonlight.”

“You can’t…” Geralt starts, the words _give up_ dying on his lips as his whole body seems numb.

Jaskier is going to die.

“Please,” Jaskier’s voice is waning, his eyes falling shut and his hand drops from Geralt’s arm to the ground with a dull thud.

It’s with pain in his heart that Geralt gathers Jaskier in his arms. He gently lifts him off the cave floor, cradles him in his arms and holds him softly against his chest.

Never before has he felt this vulnerable and every step he takes is heavy.

He’s always known, in a way, that Jaskier was important to him. Subconsciously at first, perhaps, but he’s come to accept that the loud, more often than not annoying, bard means something to him even if he doesn’t have a word for that something. But he’s always thought he had _time_ to figure it out.

But now Jaskier’s body is as heavy in his arms as his heart is in his chest and somehow he’d never truly believed the other could be lethally wounded.

Jaskier had always seemed larger than life itself, different, almost magical. But now it’s so obvious that he is not invincible after all.

\----

There’s a small clearing in front of the cave, where the trees don’t cover the view of the night-sky and where the moonlight shines down with free reign.

It is there that Geralt kneels down and gently places Jaskier on the grass, bathed in moonlight.

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat away, hoping that this, at least, brings Jaskier some comfort.

In his last moments, he deserves nothing less.

“Jaskier, I-” Geralt stops speaking the moment he starts, for what can he say?

_I don’t want you to die_

_I’m sorry_

_I love you_

Of course, now is the moment when he finds the words for what he’s felt for Jaskier.

He would think it ironic, if he didn’t feel as if his whole life was currently falling apart right in front of his eyes.

Jaskier looks like he is about to say something, but before he can get the words out the moonlight seems to get brighter around them, around Jaskier.

And then, the fucker starts to _glow_.

It’s as if a white-silver light emits from within him, envelopes his entire body. His eyes are more silver than cornflower blue and his skin illuminated as if it were moonlight itself.

Worried though he is, Geralt has seen enough out of the ordinary things to know when he needs to step back.

“Jaskier?” he asks as he raises and takes a cautious step back. His hands clench at his sides, not sure if he’s worried or relieved, not sure yet if what is going on is helping Jaskier or not.

“It’s all right, Witcher. Worry not.”

It’s not Jaskier that speaks. It’s a woman, tall and glowing just as the bard is now. She’s kneeling at Jaskier’s side, a gentle hand on his face and her silver eyes on his wounds as she murmurs: “Oh, my silly boy.”

Geralt doesn’t know why, because if he’s honest he doesn’t actually _want_ to look away from Jaskier, but something urges him to look up to the night sky.

Trusting his instincts, he does look up yet where before the moon would greet him now the sky stands empty. He frowns, looks back at the woman next to Jaskier and then up at the empty sky again.

Well, he thinks, that's new.

But the fact that apparently the fucking moon has descended from the heavens for toss-a-coin-to-your-Witcher Jaskier is either terribly worrying or soothingly re-assuring.

For Jaskier is calm now that the woman is at his side and the air doesn’t reek of blood anymore. But Geralt can’t relax, can’t be relieved because another worry has wormed its way into his mind. “Are you here to heal him or take him?” he demands, unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

The moon looks up and amusement dances in her eyes. “Don’t you worry, Witcher. My son won’t be taken from you today.”

It takes perhaps a moment longer than it should for her words to register. And at first Geralt feels relieved, because _Jaskier won’t die_.

But then, he blinks.

Because… what?

Son?

It’s surely not the moment to question it. At least Geralt knows when _not_ to ask for details and wait until a better moment, unlike the bard.

So Geralt stores the information in the back of his mind and instead lets himself bask in the feeling of relief, at the knowledge he isn’t going to Jaskier tonight.

He’s alive.

“However,” the moon continues and turns her eyes back to Jaskier, less amused now. “I do expect you to practice some more self-perseverance in the future. You are not invincible, dear heart. What if I had not been in the sky?”

Jaskier looks embarrassed at being reprimanded. Geralt expects him to argue, but to his surprise Jaskier nods solemnly, promising that: “I’ll try.”

The moon smiles in reply and leans down to press a soft kiss against Jaskier’s temple. “I must go back, before I’m missed.” She then turns to Geralt. “He is healed but he is still weak. Take care of him for me.”

Geralt would have taken care of Jaskier anyway, is even thinking that perhaps it is best he rides with him on Roach for the next few days. But in reply, he just nods.

Satisfied, the moon stands and as parting words tells Jaskier: “I look forward to spending time with you in a week’s time. Perhaps we can ask your Witcher to join.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he splutters at her words, sitting up but it’s in vain.

The moon has already returned to the indigo sky.

At Jaskier’s sudden movements Geralt springs in action, for had he not just been told just a minute before to take it easy?

He kneels down next to the bard and places a firm hand on one of his shoulders, reveling in the fact that he’s touching Jaskier and he is _fine._ “Take it easy.”

“Worried?” Jaskier shoots back straight away, obviously not really thinking. Then, a bit softer and more careful, he adds: “Because you looked awfully scared for a minute back there. Or was I hallucinating?”

It’s been ages since Geralt has felt his heart beat this fast. “I thought I lost you. Right when I realized I –” he breaks himself off before he can continue.

He turns his eyes away from Jaskier’s widened eyes because no matter how much he cares, it’s not something he can voice.

Not now, not yet.

But when Jaskier’s hand takes his, his eyes immediately turn back to the bard.

Jaskier is watching him with an elated smile that lights up his entire face. “Me too, Geralt.” Jaskier promises and draws their clasped hands closer to him, until he can press a tender kiss against the back of Geralt’s hand, his eyes filled with adoration and love and focused solely on the Witcher. “Me too.”

At those words, Geralt’s heart soars.

\---

“So, the moon’s your mom?” Geralt finally asks much, much later when they’ve made camp and Jaskier sits safely tucked underneath his arm, his warm body pressed against Geralt’s side a relief and a comfort.

“She is,” Jaskier replies with a grin, and in the dark of the forest, his cornflower blue eyes flash silver.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come say hi on Tumblr](https://thevalesofanduin.tumblr.com/)


End file.
